


Code Name:

by Kharnesh



Series: The Pack Initiative [2]
Category: DC Cinematic Universe, Suicide Squad (2016), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Backstory, Creative License, Crossover, Kanima Jackson Whittemore, Kidnapping, Names, Nursery Rhyme References, Sewers, Singing, Unconventional Families, Will-o'-wisp, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:42:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11162082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kharnesh/pseuds/Kharnesh
Summary: Every member of The Pack Initiative, AKA Pi, has a story; a history from a time before they were supernatural miscreants.These are those stories.A Suicide Squad/Teen Wolf crossover.





	Code Name:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows that he is not Jackson. He’s not. He is himself; Whispy Child, Swamp Beastie.

He doesn’t remember his name.

He doesn’t remember a time before he arrived at Home. He doesn’t remember a time before the Wispies. 

They lead him through the twisty, damp paths of Home until his is able to navigate every turn with his outer eyelids closed. They whisper in his ear holes until he is able to form his own thoughts into words. They sing to him until he is able to return every note in perfect harmony. 

He lives a simple, content life in the deep bowels of Home. 

 

His nest is the only truly dry place he and Whispies are able to find in Home. He lines the elevated crevice with the scraps of cloth and crinkly material he finds floating through the currents. When he curls up, the padded areas squish and crack in a soft cacophony. The sounds carry him off to sleep. 

 

He sometimes thinks about what lives above Home. The Whispies tell him that he will journey up to that world one day, but not this day. 

“You have to understand the foundation of a structure before you can dream of the structure itself,” they sing. 

He practices climbing the smooth, curved walls of Home in preparation of the day when he will adventure above. His voice is soft under the sound of his claw finding purchase in the cement. 

“The itsssy bitsssy ssspider climbed up the waterssspout.  
Down came the rain  
and washed the ssspider out.  
Out came the sssun  
and dried up all the rain  
and the itsssy bitsssy ssspider climbed up the ssspout again.” 

The Whispies laugh at him, with him, when loses his grip and falls into the water below. 

 

One day, when the Whispies are flaring and dancing incessantly, they teach him a new song. He repeats each word back to them a hundred times before they are satisfied. 

“Ladybird, ladybird fly away home,  
Your house isss on fire and your children are gone,  
All exsssept one,  
And her name isss Ann,  
And she hid under the baking pan.” 

Their usually soft voices crackle unhappily. They whisper to each other when they think he is occupied with climbing Home’s walls. 

“How easily baking pans are overturned,” they mutter. “How easily children are taken for fools.” 

They dance circles around each other quickly, skipping beats erratically. “But not our child, not our swamp beastie.” 

He purposefully drops himself into the water below to get them to chuckle. 

 

He grows taller, his tail longer, and his claws sharper. He doesn't fall from the curved walls anymore. He scuttles across them like he swims through the water below. 

All of Home is his now. 

 

Someone floats down Home’s currents, washing up near his nest. Two someones. 

He pulls them out of the water. They are softer than him. Their hide isn’t scaled and hardened like his; they are pink and brown and, in some places, _raw_. 

The Whispies float around their faces. 

“Our ilk, our sister,” they tut. “Not quite ready for such power.” 

He drags them into his nest, setting aside their soaked cloth to dry. He traces the features of their faces with his clawed fingers. 

_They are beautiful_ , he thinks. 

“Thursssday’sss Children,” he says. 

The Whispies agree with him. 

“So, so far to go.” 

 

Thursday’s Children wake up eventually, and the Whispies hide away. 

They want to know where they are, so he tells them, “Home.” 

They want to know who he is, so he tells them, “Me.” 

They don’t seem satisfied with his answers, but they relent when their teeth start to chatter. He piles his nest’s crinkly material on top of them to make them stop. They hiss painfully when their hands ghost over their raw bits. _Burns_ , the Whispies call them. The raw bits are _burns_. 

Thursday’s Children fall into an exhausted sleep, and the Whispsies say that their burns will take time to heal. 

 

He adds Thursday’s Children’s now dry cloth to the pile of nest bedding on top of them. Their shivers subside. 

Thursday’s Children tell him that they call themselves Boyd and Isaac. They ask him who he is, again. They weren’t satisfied before, so he tries to think of a new answer. 

“Whissspy Child,” he says, almost asking if that’s correct. 

Boyd and Isaac frown, so he tries to think harder. He remembers the Whispies laughing at him, with him, when he was small and falling off the walls. 

“Ssswamp Beassstie.” 

They accept this answer with nods and let him cover them with more crinkly material. 

 

Boyd and Isaac heal, and their skin bubbles pop painfully. _Blisters_ , the Whispies whisper to him while Thursday’s Children are sleeping. Their skin bubbles are _blisters_. 

When they are awake, he shows them how to drop stones into the water below and how to make the most satisfying sounds with them. 

“One for sssorrow,” 

Plop. 

“Two for mirth,” 

Plop. 

“Three for a funeral,” 

Plop. 

“Four for birth,” 

Plop. 

“Five for heaven,” 

Plop. 

“Sssix for hell,” 

Plop. 

“Ssseven for the devil, hisss own ssself.” 

Plop. 

They smile at him when he dives down to retrieve the round pebbles and gently places them into their hands. 

They lean over edge of his nest together and say, “One for sorrow.” 

Plop. 

 

Soon, Thursday’s Children are healed and whole. Their blister have faded, and their burns, though still present, are no longer raw and painful. They let him trace the edges of their scars with his clawed fingers, and he again thinks, _They are beautiful_. 

They have to go, they say. They have to find their friend, their lady, their leader. They have to find their family. 

Boyd smiles at him sadly, and Isaac says, “Bye, Beastie,” as they turn away. 

The Whispies come out of hiding when the two of them are gone, and only then does he whisper, “Goodbye, Thursssday’sss Children.” 

 

He finds new rocks to drop into the water below. They are more jagged and rough than their predecessors, and they do not make a very nice sound. 

He keeps his old and smooth pebbles at the back of his nest, wrapped up in crinkly material. He calls them Thursday. 

 

Something is hunting him. 

Something is chasing him through Home, and the Whispies lead him deep, deep, deep into its bowels. 

They stop at a dead end, and he claws at it desperately. 

The Whispies dance around him faster, faster, faster. 

“You understand the foundation,” they chant. “Now dream of the structure.” 

The sound of feet slapping against water draws nearer and nearer. 

“Dream, little swamp beastie.” 

And then the Whispies are gone. They are gone, and they have taken their soft, white light with them. For the first time in his life, he feels alone in the dark. 

He curls in on himself, half submerged in the water and currents of Home, and whisper-sings to himself. 

“How many milesss to Babylon?  
Three ssscore and ten.  
Can I get there by candle-light?  
Yesss, and back again.  
If your heelsss are nimble and light,  
You may get there by candle-light.” 

The pounding of feet and the slapping of water has stopped, and he knows that if he were to open his eyes and look up, he would see his hunters. 

He keeps his eyes closed and cries. He sobs, and fat tears roll heavily down his scaled cheeks. 

 

They take him away from Home and the Whispies. They take him to the world above and keep him in a cage. It is large and dry, but it is still a cage. 

He sleeps and wakes and does not count how many times he does so. 

 

A man sometimes comes to see him. The man calls him Jackson. Jackson Whittemore. 

The name means nothing to him, so he ignores the man and curls himself tighter into the corner of his cage. 

 

He dreams of Thursday, still wrapped up in crinkly material at the back of his nest. He dreams of the sound they used to make as they hit the water below. He dreams of the Whispies laughing at him, with him, as he hit the water below. 

 

He scratches at the walls of his cage, leaving thin indents behind. He is trying to carve the ghostly outlines of the Whispies. 

“I had a little nut tree,  
Nothing would it bear,  
But a sssilver nutmeg  
And a golden pear,” 

He continues to sing, even as the door of his cage swings open and someone steps inside. 

“The King of Ssspain'sss daughter  
Came to visssit me,  
And all for the sssake  
Of my little nut tree.” 

He turns to the door, expecting the man to have come visiting again, but it’s not him. It’s a woman, he thinks. She has soft and rounded bits on her, which were the only indicators the Whispies had ever told him about. 

She looks him directly in the eyes and says, “Jackson.” 

The name still means nothing to him, but he doesn’t look away from her like did the man. 

“My name is Dr. Lydia Martin.” She takes a few steps towards him and sits on the ground a few feet away. “Lydia.” 

He looks at her and sees the light behind her eyes dance like the Whispies. 

He knows that he is not Jackson. He’s not. He is himself; Whispy Child, Swamp Beastie. 

But for her… 

He scoots away from the wall until he is directly in front of her. He reaches his hand out slowly and traces the line where her hair meets her scalp with his clawed fingers. She does not flinch away. 

_She is beautiful_ , he thinks. 

For her, he could be Jackson. He could be Lydia’s Jackson. 

He smiles. 

“Jackssson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> I am so excited to be continuing with this universe!
> 
> I never thought I would have this much fun writing from Jackson's point of view, but it was definitely a positive experience. When you strip away his douchiness, he's kind of a sweetheart.
> 
> Please feel free to comment with questions, comments, or concerns. I would love to hear from you.
> 
> Again, I do not have a beta for this piece, so please forgive and spelling or grammatical errors. I'll find them eventually, I swear.


End file.
